pretty vacant

"Punk: Chaos to Couture" is an attempt by the Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum to explore the impact that the punk movement has had on the world of high fashion from its beginnings in the 1970s to the present. At the beginning of the exhibit is a recreation of the bathroom at CBGB, the once influential rock club located on the Bowery that has gone the way of so many other culturally significant locations all in the name of gentrification and luxury living. The recreated bathroom is gritty, nostalgic, funny, fascinating; feels historically substantial, and also seems just about the only thing in the vast spectacle that feels museum-worthy in the cultural context of punk. Of course, some of the gowns are beautiful; their materials luxuriant, the workmanship painstaking and exquisite, but what does any of that have to do with punk? 

The first room of clothing boasts a bulky collection of Vivianne Westwood T-shirts and blouses. That their inspiration was derived from angry disenfranchised British street-youth is undeniable. In the corner of the room was a small assortment of Westwood T-shirts worn by Adam Ant, the pop star was never considered punk to begin with, but rather was maligned by punks and rockers for commodifying and mainstreaming what had been created to represent anti-establishment and anarchy. The very design concept of the show; each mannequin wearing identicale bubblegum-pink, shag afro wigs is more reminiscent of a disco-dance-floor theme party than of the angry individualism branded by punks.

And them came the gowns: Versace, Prada, Dolce & Gabanna, Gucci, etc.; beautiful to be sure, yet in the context of punk; fractured, disassociated, and hardly worth talking about. I was no stranger to the New York punk scene of the late 70s and early 80s. I remember one party in particular, where the music was painfully loud and wrathful, the floor filthy and covered in sticky wetness, and a young woman I was talking to was wearing a torn, white, vintage dress that had rat's heads safety-pinned, higgledy-piggledy across the bodice. I remember her explaining to me that she had gotten the rats from the laboratory of whatever school she'd been going to, severed the heads, frozen them so that they would thaw and then bleed down the dress as she wore them during the evening. I don't recall seeing anything like that represented in the exhibit. 

Most disturbing is that "Punk: Chaos to Couture" implicates fashion, luxury, and exclusivity as the inevitable consequence of punk. Truly, what stands on display in the museum is the antithesis of what the punks were expressing. The show itself, concept and execution, is clearly financially motivated; a transparent move on the part of the Museum to attempt to recreate the success of the Alexander McQueen exhibit, which was on display from May to August of 2011. "Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty" was the Met's best-attended exhibition in the history of the Costume Institute. It was so successful that the museum had to extend its hours to accommodate the long lines of visitors. This brazen presentation of capitalist corporate greed masquerading as museum-worthy art and culture is so illicitly contrary to the roots of punk as to be reproachable. Like countless other businesses and attractions in New York City, the museum is now capitalizing of the surfeit of tourists flocking to the city. Tourist revenue seems finally to have surpassed art, culture, and curatorial responsibility as what is of paramount importance to this world class institution. It is exactly this brand of manipulation of the masses; this forcing of a corporately sponsored, and socially acceptable hegemonic culture onto an exploitable public that encouraged the punks to question the dominant power structure and to champion anarchy.

historiography

 

War photographs are not really my thing. Nor would it be likely that anyone accuse me of being a Civil War buff – far from it. Of course, I appreciate the technical skill and bravery that war photographers need to have at their disposal in order to go into battle-torn regions and document the gruesome brutality and worst of human nature – combining skill and an aesthetic eye; a rare talent. The courageous men and women who bring their cameras into this field should be applauded. Still, it’s not my thing.  

History is fascinating and essential. “Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it,” said George Santayana, and I couldn’t agree more. Nevertheless, when it comes to war, I am usually disgusted and saddened by the basest and most brutal instincts of man to harm his brother in the name of religion, land, or politics. It’s just not something I choose to focus on. Layered on top of my already decided discomfort and distaste for military battle are all of the complex issues related to the American Civil War: slavery, racial prejudice, Southern intolerance, etc. Confederate flags are still a high-flying symbol of white supremacy, bigotry, intolerance, and any number of other unsavory things. As a progressive and liberal Yankee, these associations leave a bitter taste in my mouth. So it was with trepidation that I walked into the Photography and the American Civil War exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 

            

I’m grateful that I did. The collection on display was unquestionably comprehensive in its scope: more than 200 photographs; battlefields and war-ruined villages, documentation of slaves as property, wallet-sized portraits of soldiers and families; intricately framed daguerreotypes, portraits in lockets, political campaign buttons, doctors’ photographs documenting wounds and amputations, a series of photographs by Alexander Gardner depicting the hanging of the five conspirators in the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln – the combination of all these materials opened my eyes as well as my mind. 

 
As if to ensure my interest in what was to come, in the first room was a portrait of abolitionist and women’s rights activist Sojourner Truth; dignified and regal with deep, soulful eyes that made me wonder what lifetime of atrocities they’d witnessed. Directly next to that small, yet queenly portrait was a photograph of Runaway Mississippi Slave, Gordon; his back a keloid constellation of brutality and pain; a map of human suffering and cruelty. Immediately I understood the importance of what I was seeing and was reminded of the integral relationship between photographs and how we respond to social issues.  In the high corner of the room was a calligraphy-printed quote “A house divided against itself cannot stand.” – Abraham Lincoln, 1858.
            

The crowds were thick in the galleries the afternoon I went, and many of the items on display; small and demanding of close inspection, but I patiently stayed my place in the slow procession to take in as many of the images and objects as I could.

          

Of course, I was expecting to see the Matthew Brady portraits of Lincoln, I’d seen them reproduced countless times in books, magazines, and newspapers, but I wasn’t prepared for the austere power these portraits have in context.  Nor was I prepared for the documentation of how our President had aged during his time in office. No longer just a thing of educational TV series or beer-bellied redneck reenactments, I was developing a personal relationship to the Civil War and could actually feel areas of my mind expanding to make room for this new information and its supplemental emotions.

Rooms of bleak landscapes; Virginia, South Carolina; photos of burned town center buildings that looked like they could have been ripped from the soundstages of Gone with the Wind. Many of these photos credited to Matthew Brady, but interestingly, and it is still being discovered; scores of young men, fascinated by the then new science of photography, were taking to the field and capturing images, which were attributed to Brady who was comfortably in his studio in the nation’s capitol.             

Walls of photographs lined one room documenting medical procedures: amputations, bullet removals, wounds, etc. Each photo I looked at created a personal connection for me with the subject – did these young men and boys actually know what a camera was? Were they able to see the finished results of the picture taking? Many of them were probably illiterate and terribly scared. Did they know their faces were being captured forever? They certainly couldn’t have known that crowds of art enthusiasts, historians, and tourists would be lining up to analyze their likenesses a hundred and fifty years after they’d suffered such humiliations. My mind reeled through the century and a half that separated us.

   

There were cases lined with photos from the end of the war of white women and children labeled: Freed Slaves of Louisiana. They had been slaves because of the “one drop rule,” even though they'd looked no more African-American than Gwyneth Paltrow.The one drop rule was something I'd heard of, but the visual evidence supporting its enforcement was staggering.
          

In the final room was the series documenting the hanging of Lincoln’s murder conspirators – a 19^th century most wanted follow-up, complete with accompanying newspaper headlines. There was also a Matthew Brady portrait of Robert E. Lee taken two days after Lincoln’s assassination. The wall text explained that after surrendering at Appomattox, Lee returned to his home in Richmond, Virginia. Large areas of his affluent neighborhood had fallen and been burned, but his home was surprisingly still standing. In the photograph, Lee is standing on the back porch of his home; his hat in his hand. He looks old, tired, and solemn; the weight of defeat a heavy shadow on him.
 

The indelible collection of faces is what impacted me most: Young. Old. White. Black. Innocent. Stupid. Angry. Frightened. Defiant. Thoughtful. Anxious. Brave. Naïve.  – A world of people that are gone, whose experiences can only be guessed at by the clues that are left.  Case after case of daguerreotype portraits – suggestions of young men with glass shadows; phantoms, some looking no more than children; cleaned-up and uniformed; bayonets proudly grasped in adolescent hands, some of them with rosy painted cheeks or an added twinkle in their eye; many of them displayed in precious and intricately decorated cases; silver lined with deep-colored velvet. These were sons and brothers; boyfriends and husbands; real people with real families and real lives; they’ve evaporated into the historiography of our country’s policies and ideologies. All this evidence of loss made me reflective and sad. 
           

precious

To call Lee Daniels’ Precious: Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire (2009) a deeply moving story of personal triumph over adversity would be to sell short its blistering performances as well as its emotional impact. Likewise, to call the film an exercise in racial and class stereotypes would be to underestimate precisely how offensive and potentially destructive its ramifications might be in terms of how it represents particular groups of people.  Just as the film appears to fearlessly grapple with difficult and serious issues affecting children and disenfranchised communities (illiteracy, obesity, education, incest, sexual abuse, social services, etc.), it simultaneously denigrates African-Americans, women, and the poor as a grim and exaggerated fabrication of 1980s life in the ghetto. On its surface, Precious is a moving drama about one young girl’s personal and difficult transformative journey. On further examination, the film’s dichotomies emphasize the importance of appreciating the difference between what a work is and what it does.
                                                                                     
Primarily, as an article of commercial entertainment, what Precious does is inspire its audience by telling a story of the strength of the human spirit emerging triumphant through the most severe and extreme adverse circumstances. In doing so, however, it also simultaneously paints a picture of the poor as cruel and violent; ignorant, immoral and deceitful villains; child-rapists, thieves, welfare-scammers, neglectful parents, and uncaring scoundrels.  Precious complicates its own indictment of the poor by conflating representations of poverty with representations of blackness and pathology.                                  

Generating controversy to encourage commercial success is a filmmaking tradition, and in that practice, Daniels leaves no stone unturned and no envelope un-pushed. The very conditions that may be an affront to the viewer are the same conditions that may compel the viewer to become emotionally invested in the film.  Is Daniels a skilled cinematic craftsman or a flamboyant hack? Does dramatic license allow the use of racial stereotypes in a persuasive strategy at the expense of a group’s representation? It would be unthinkable to accept Precious as a significant, or even legitimate film had it been made by a white filmmaker. Daniels, being African-American, is given a much broader margin of freedom in being able to exploit ethnic and cultural clichés without incurring charges of racism. Nevertheless, a number of his directorial choices strongly reinforce negative categorizations that already exist against poor and black communities.

Expressly problematic is Daniels’ approach of having the villains of Precious be dark skinned, while the film’s heroes are light skinned or of mixed race.  Certainly, having the bad guys wear black and the good guys wear white is a storytelling trope that dates back to the initiation of projected film and before, but does it remain practical to continue to institute this device when there is so much at stake to one particular cultural collective? This method might make it easier for an audience to identify, consciously or not, which characters might be trusted and which characters might pose a threat. Playing to and exploiting this oftentimes subconscious, shameful and unfortunate institution of skin color discrimination within the black community seems especially unethical and negligent in light of the content of this particular film.   
                          
Of course, owing to the nature of cultural hegemony and the way dominant ideology insidiously seeps into a culture’s collective unconscious, Daniels’ casting decisions may not have been necessarily malicious, but might perhaps be a reflection of his own personal perception of whom he may identify as dangerous and threatening, or whom he may identify as comforting and safe. Nonetheless, given the attention to detail that is paid to every scene in the film, the predominant message that darker-skinned people are untrustworthy and dangerous, and that lighter-skinned people are protective and safe remains loathsome and indefensible.    
                                                          
The filmmakers’ attention to this message of light versus dark, particularly as it relates to skin color, is so painstaking as to have Mary, Precious’ odious, abusive mother, wear light makeup in the penultimate scene, as if her intention is to appear kinder or more “acceptable” to the social worker. This character’s action to lighten her appearance speaks directly to the internalized racism and self-hatred cultivated by cultural hegemony.      
  
As questionable and irresponsible as perpetuating these hegemonic messages may be, Daniels uses them to dramatic advantage, making Precious a sensationalistic powerhouse of a film. In the same way that, in the 1990s, Quentin Tarantino coupled popular references with depraved violence to make probing social commentary about our culture’s relationship to violence, Daniels attempts to take dramatic and larger-than-life approaches to some of the more difficult issues in Precious. The crucial difference between the two being that Tarantino’s films primarily deal with white gangsters, drug dealers, and petty criminals; familiar characters belonging to groups whose power and dominance are neither threatened nor underrepresented, while Daniels’ drama hinges on the experiences of a vulnerable member of an underrepresented, near invisible subordinate group (female, obese, illiterate, abused), whose exploitation results in consequences of social misrepresentation.                                                                                                   
The film is fraught with disturbing imagery that reinforces strongly held cultural prejudices indicting subordinate groups as responsible for their own dilemmas. Daniels cuts from a scene of Precious being incestuously raped to pigs’ feet sizzling in a pan full of grease. The girl is not only equated to a piece of meat, but cheap, unhealthy, often discarded meat. Are we to reason that Precious’ lack of self-care, self-control, intelligence, ambition or motivation may be partly to blame for how she is mistreated? She doesn’t only eat an entire bucket of fried chicken – she steals it. The implication that a child’s worth is contingent on her height/weight proportionality, intellect, or moral conduct is troubling.   

Especially disturbing is how Precious in turn mistreats the little girl who lives in her building – illustrating that abusive behavior is learned and repeated. Precious is eventually absolved of her atrocious treatment of the girl (by passing on her magical orange scarf to the child), but only after her miraculous transformation from victim of monstrous motherhood to loving and nurturing mother herself.    
                                      
Seeing the young girl, her face bruised, accompanying her mother in the social services waiting area, suggests that child abuse is not an isolated offense, but rather a commonplace practice specific to the community portrayed in Precious. This aspect of the story, which was most certainly meant to have been inspirational: the passing on of the magical scarf of possibility, the brave breaking of the chain of abuse – wouldn’t be so irresponsible and offensive had Daniels countered these atrocities by showing examples of loving families and parents within the same community, but that balance wasn’t represented.   

Perhaps most reprehensible is the libertarian wet dream fantasy ending message of Precious that anyone, regardless of personal circumstances (semi-illiterate, abused, obese, saddled with two infants, diagnosed with a life-threatening illness, whatever) has the ability to pull themselves out of the morass of their unfortunate surroundings and overcome life’s most challenging obstacles if only they have enough self-reliance and motivation to do so. This misleading dogma of personal responsibility removes all onus from more fortunate viewers to take any action to help better the lives of those less fortunate than themselves, just as it gives false hope to anyone tormented by their luckless and tragic conditions. 
 

radiant child

The disquieting and uncomfortably titled, "27 Club" consists of an unfortunate group of exclusive celebrities who died at age 27: Robert Johnson, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, Amy Winehouse. Not being a musician, Jean-Michel Basquiat is an unusual entry; he died from a heroin overdose in 1988.

I returned for a second contemplation of the Basquiat exhibit at the Gagosian gallery in Chelsea last week. While my first visit left me with a crisp and concrete response to what the young painter might have been trying to convey in his works, I went away from my second visit more than a little befuddled by what was being presented, and also somewhat sad.

Brooklyn-born, Jean-Michel Basquiat was son to an Afro-Puerto Rican mother and a Haitian father. He grew up speaking, reading, and writing in English, Spanish, and French fluently. In the second half of the 1970s, Basquiat found fame (or infamy) as SAMO©, graffiti-ing buildings around Soho and downtown Manhattan. He participated in a group show in 1981, and was then featured in an article in Artforum magazine, which brought him to the attention of the art world. While at first glance some of his paintings may seem gimmicky or amateurishly higgledy-piggledy, at his best, Jean-Michel Basquiat's work ranks among the most original of his generation - maybe even of his century. 

After 1960s Pop Art championed celebrity and the commodification of the mundane, and after the sterile rigidity of 1970s minimalism, it seems Basquiat's multicultural New York-ishness, his energy and his anger were exactly what the art world thirsted for. He exploded onto the scene. His work and his personality - synonymous in a way that might only be compared with Andy Warhol's art/persona - shot to fame like a juggernaut. His gritty, Afro-centric, hurried, and agitated paintings began fetching exorbitant prices on the international art market. Unusual and impressive for an artist so young. Particularly notable for an African-American artist of any age.

This legendary and fast-burning superstar of the art world has been examined and reexamined in books, documentaries, films, and numerous retrospectives. What new insights could possibly be shared that haven't been considered before? And why reconsider his work and position now? What biting parallels might be drawn from his time and ours? The current landscape of unparalleled economic disparity, emerging class warfare, poverty, and an industrial prison complex that feeds itself on African-American and immigrant communities would have undoubtedly been fertile material for Basquiat's sharp and caustic voice.

In the 1980s, Punk Rock was being infused with a New Wave dance beat, clubs like Danceteria and Pyramid were spitting out celebrities, fashion trends, and artists that were making an indelible impact all over the globe. African-American neighborhoods in Mayor Koch's New York were being ravaged by crack, and corrupt police tactics were responsible for the deaths of graffiti artist, Michael Stewart and senior citizen, Eleanor Bumpers. AIDS was also beginning to take its devastating toll on the arts communities, especially in New York City. The landscape was rich with inspiration for Basquiat's unrestrained talent.

All the excitement, danger, inequity, and corruption of his generation are evident in the large unwieldy canvases (and boards, and slatted panels, and other salvaged materials) hung about Gagosian's sprawling, sun-drenched Chelsea gallery. Basquiat painted on a large scale, and each piece practically screams at the viewer with urgency and compulsivity. Whether his unique blend of compulsive obsession and urgency was motivated by his need for expression or the alarming prices his paintings were demanding (or both) may remain unknown. The result, however, is that he seems to have created his own artistic language; fusing painting, drawing, collage, and poetry to produce a distinct and vibrant historiogrphy of his experience as a young black man in a world dominated by the aristocracy of a privileged white few. His sharp jabs at an unfair hierarchical dominance are as much a commentary on the political landscape as on those who ruled the art world. An unlikely champion, he remained uncensored and biting in his narrative of black history, subjugation, injustice, and white dominance. 

 
















Incorporating iconography in his work: African masks, crowns, cars, cops, skyscrapers, etc., Basquiat consistently represented his own heritage and life experience in his work. In Eyes and Eggs (1983), measuring an impressive 9x10 feet, a black short order cook is dressed in a white cap and coat, he holds a frying pan with two eggs in it, mirroring his eyes, and he wears a name tag, which reads, "Joe." It is both cartoonish and sad - a nod to a generation of working class African-Americans who came before him, and a simultaneous spit in the eye to the collectors and agents of the art world who have reduced generations of hard-working people to fetishistic collectibles. Joe's mouth appears almost sealed with a diffused white swipe across the bottom side of his face - he's seen but not heard; in a position of servitude and voiceless. And if this cartoonish homage weren't enough to deliver a stern gut-punch, there are black sneaker treads all over the canvas, underscoring how an entire history has been walked on. 

Prolific in his few short years of work, Basquiat got darker and more self-reflective in his paintings, perhaps paralleling his descent into addiction; the later canvases less frenetic and politically accusatory - more contemplative. There are larger areas of negative space, less use of primary colors and more use of subtle hues and metallics. Still present are the triple tracks of toothy grins and the seemingly arbitrary dismembered body parts, but also transparent compartments in alien looking figures; an intricate constellation of goings-on where a lung would normally belong, for example. 

Riding with Death (1988), is a striking departure from the busy-ness of his earlier works; a large almost empty canvas with a background awash in metallic silver/green supports a figure riding atop the suggestion of a minimal and deconstructed skeleton. It is plaintive and elegiac; a prescient treatise of ambition, drug addiction, money, and celebrity. 

Jean-Michel Basquiat had a lot to say, and he said it in exciting and never before seen ways that tore away boundaries between New York City nightlife, the art world, and the streets. I left the gallery space sorrowful and curious as to what we might have seen from a more calm and seasoned Basquiat - grieving the unrealized potential of what might have been had this wild and unbridled boy been allowed to mature and settle into adulthood without the pressures of fame, expectation, and drug addiction.

 

don't cry for me argentina

In light of recent (and not so recent) sex and child abuse scandals, allegations of corruption, and a centuries long history of bloodshed and genocide, the Catholic Church might have considered a more contemporary public relations approach to its current predicament in order to present a more modern, progressive, gentler image to the world. But with the new Papal selection, the Catholic response seems to have been to grasp ever tighter to its conservative positions on social issues. We just saw the first resignation of a Pope in 600 years with Benedict (Ratzinger). Ratzinger (Benedict) entered his Papal career amid allegations of being a Nazi sympathizer and stepped down steeped in allegations of corruption, with knowledge of (and apparently playing an active role in) covering the tracks of predatory priests accused of child abuse. Now, we're seeing the introduction of Francis, who seems to have a problematic and questionable past of his own. 

Jorge Mario Bergoglio (Francis) is the first non-European in 1200 years and also the first Jesuit ever chosen to be the Bishop of Rome and the leader of the worldwide Catholic Church. That Bergoglio hails from Latin America is a promising development, especially considering that more than a third of the world's Catholic population lives in Latin America. Also, his being a Jesuit, a religious order of the Roman Catholic Church known for their work in education (founding schools, colleges, universities and seminaries), intellectual research, and cultural pursuits is encouraging. This choice would seem to imply that the Church is at once attempting to embolden education while at the same time reaching across the ocean to the Americas in order to help develop a more modern Catholic Church, which might better represent the impending global needs of the 21st century. A prospect that might prove difficult to maintain for long considering the new Pontiff has only one lung and is 76 years old.

Particularly in light of the allegations that Ratzinger came (and left) with, it's somewhat surprising that Bergoglio doesn't come with a squeaky clean record. His positions on same-sex marriage, gay adoption, abortion, women in the clergy, celibacy, and contraception are, not surprisingly rigidly conservative. He's called gay marriage "the destructive attempt to end God's plan." And has referred to adoption by gay couples as "the envy of the devil." Argentine President Cristina Fernandez once compared Bergoglio's stands on abortion and gay rights to "medieval times and the Inquisition." So if you had any hopes that the Catholic Church was going to hop on the gay marriage bandwagon anytime soon, get ready to be gravely disappointed. 

Bergoglio has had a long clerical career in Argentina where he's had the opportunity to work closely with President Fernandez. And while their relationship has sometimes been argumentative, this should indicate that he knows what it means to work with and have respect for a strong woman in a position of power. He also knows what it means to work with the poor and impoverished in terms of healthcare and education. 

Perhaps most troubling, and surprising in light of Ratzinger's Nazi allegations, are the allegations that Borgoglio was involved with the abductions and kidnappings of liberal priests during a military junta in 1976. 

As events unfold, it becomes clear that the unfortunate truth about the institutional behemoth that is the Catholic Church is that its primary motivation is to uphold its institutional power and position. The Church, as an institution, appears to be more concerned with doctrinal dogmaticism and the retaining of its power, rather than any practical application of the teachings of Christ.

seneca falls, selma, stonewall

Barack Obama's Presidency has been problematic for any number of reasons. For me, it has been a highly-charged and paradoxical jumble of hope and disappointment. As a left-leaning, arugula-eating homo, of course, I've been thrilled with the strides that have been made by this administration's acknowledgment and support of LGBT issues. Unfortunately, I've been equally distressed by a great many other issues that either pass under the radar or go unreported by the majority of media outlets: drone strikes, the continuation of the Bush era anti-terror policies (wire taps, indefinite detainment, etc.), the continuation of tax cuts and corporate loopholes, and the refusal to acknowledge an unjust prison industrial complex that decimates African-American, Latino, and poor communities while nefarious Wall Street fat cats walk free. I also have an incessant disenchantment (that occasionally fluctuates to anger) with this administration's general inability to stand up against the radical right-wing tyrants who've managed to hold the nation hostage these past four years simply out of spite. 

That said, yesterday as I watched the second inauguration of President Obama, I felt hope, pride of country, respect, and true change. Yesterday, when the President addressed climate change, my heart skipped a beat thinking that maybe, just maybe this second term will reveal a man with so steely and determined a core that he will stand up to the imperious, truculent fringe who are more concerned with self-promotion than serving their constituents or their country. I am old enough to have seen friends, strong young men, whither with disease and die needlessly partly because President Reagan refused to even say the word AIDS. Standing in front of the nation and the world, President Obama said, "We, the people, declare today that the most evident of truths – that all of us are created equal – is the star that guides us still; just as it guided our forebears through Seneca Falls, and Selma, and Stonewall..." and I felt something expand in my chest; something more than pride, more than respect or patriotism, or even hope; I felt recognized.

twenty thirteen

Forgive me; I feel that I've been neglecting you, dear blog. We are already more than one week into the new year and I haven't written anything here since before Christmas. I have, however, been keeping busy posting birthdays of celebrities and other interesting persons of note on Facebook. This has become an enjoyable, and oftentimes educational morning activity for me. I go online to see what historical figures have been born on that particular day in history, and then google them while drinking my coffee. Often I discover interesting people I hadn't been aware of before, and occasionally I'll uncover little-known and interesting facts about personalities with whom I've already been acquainted.

For example, two days ago it would have been gorgeous French model and actress, Capucine's 85th birthday, and while I clearly remember her as Barbara Stanwyck's sultry and Sapphic plaything in Walk on the Wild Side, I had no idea that she suffered from extreme depression, or that she tragically threw herself to her death from her eighth story window in 1990.  I've also recently read extensively about Lillian Roth, Tom Mix, ZaSu Pitts, Jeanne d'Arc, Zora Neale Hurston, George Reeves, and Lucretia Mott. 

Perhaps the most intriguing celebrity I've become aware of recently is Lucia Zarate. Lucia Zarate, often billed as "The Mexican Lilliputian," or "The Puppet Woman," was born in San Carlos, Mexico. She was entered into the Guinness World Records as "the lightest recorded adult," weighing 4.7 pounds at age 17 (smaller than a cat)! Lucia stood at 20 inches tall. Unlike dwarves, she was normal in every other way, and was described as bright and animated company. She first came to the US at 12 years old to tour with the Barnum Circus, and was one of the highest-paid small people of all time. Zarate died tragically in 1890 at age 26 from hypothermia when the train she was traveling on to an engagement in San Francisco became stalled by a blizzard in the mountains of the Sierra Nevada. This past Wednesday was her 149th birthday. 

 

the war on christmas

Sorry to disappoint you, kids, but this is not my favorite season. Many revel in comforting childhood memories of being snuggled close to the bosom of their families at Christmas - the drop in temperature immediately signaling a seasonal kindheartedness in them as they gleefully charge toward the holiday; jingle bells jangling, eager to fight holiday crowds and throw money at gifts soon forgotten. Unfortunately, this is not my experience. The implicit expectation of familial warmth and joviality coupled with the ubiquitous weight of a corporately manufactured ideology manipulating the masses to spend frivolously puts me in an uneasy disposition. In other words, 'tis the season and I'm irritable as hell.  

I've noticed this about myself in the past, but the feelings are especially acute this year. I don't believe it's a coincidence that exactly ten years ago, I was reaching the depths of my ultimate *please, God* bottom with drugs and alcohol. Memories are blurry - there are a few specific and painfully demoralizing recollections, but mostly just awash of feelings of misery and desperation. I used to not put too much stock into the whole concept of seasonal moods, but these last few years, I've experienced anniversarial mood changes that cannot be mistaken. Like rheumatoid arthritis, the season rolls around and my knuckles swell uncomfortably. 

Forgive me my humbuggery, but the carols, the lights, the rows of cut trees on street corners, those damned ringing bells; I simply don't like it. There is a certain muscle memory that fills me with foreboding. Maybe this is a useful thing; a warning of sorts, maybe it's the heightened intuition of my inner drama queen, either way, it's uncomfortable. 

Of course, these vexatious seasonal feelings are conflated with the family situation. The longer I stay sober, the more clearly I can see just how unwell my family is. The need to show up for others countered to my own need to keep a safe and detached distance in order to take care of myself presents a difficult, often painful holiday conundrum. 

There's also the heightened awareness of being single this time of year; having no "special someone" to shop for, or to snuggle with 'neath the twinkling Tannenbaum's boughs. It doesn't help.

As always, but especially so this season, I miss Nanny, my paternal grandmother, and my dog, Zeke. His absence is still so profound that I sometimes experience waves of a void so absolute that I have to catch my breath. The memory of their unconditional love for me fills me with an indescribable hope, and can oftentimes provide a conduit in me through which I might catch glimpses a Higher Power. 

Current events aren't helping matters much. The Connecticut school shooting tragedy brilliantly illuminates the shameful and perverted relationship this country has with guns. Don't worry, I'm not gonna go off on a gun control rant here, I'll just quickly note that these atrocities don't happen anywhere else in the world with the same regularity as they do here. My basket of holiday cheer is neatly tied with a ribbon of disgust at the twisted and ongoing American gun-toting dogma. I'm just star-spangled sick of it.

One more thing and I'll end this gloomy and prattling X-mas post. Just in case you feel the warm tingly need to toss a few clams into one of those bell-ringing Santas' red buckets, know what the Salvation Army actually does with its money. 

Gold bless us, every one. 
   

all the trimmings

This Thanksgiving was among the most pleasant in my memory. There were only five of us: my pop, my friends S, G, and L, and me. I did all of the cooking and I was happy to do it. We ate well, hung out, laughed, there was no drama (what? on Thanksgiving? you're kidding). A good time was had by all, even my grumpy old pop.

I went upstate Tuesday afternoon with pops; loaded down with shopping bags full of ingredients, and started prepping for the big meal. Pop had ordered a 17 lb organic turkey from the farm up the road from him in Red Hook, New York, and it was there in the refrigerator waiting to be dealt with when we arrived. Late Tuesday afternoon, I washed the bird, reserved the neck and giblets, and put it inside two heavy duty plastic bags to soak in a brine made of 28 cups of water, 1 1/2 cups of kosher salt, 1/2 cup of brown sugar, a halved lemon, a handful of juniper berries, a couple tablespoons of coriander, a tablespoon or so of black peppercorns, and about 8 to 10 bay leaves. I made sure that it was submerged in the liquid, secured the bags, put it inside of a huge lobster pot, and then put the pot in the garage (it wouldn't fit in the refrigerator) where the temperature hung around the mid 30s. It stayed there until Thursday morning. I also cut up two loaves of freshly baked Pullman White Bread, removing the crusts, and two loaves of Challah for the stuffings I knew I would be making. I lay the cut-up bread, uncovered on parchment-lined baking sheets on the counter (the bread needs to get kinda stale and hard for the stuffings).

Wednesday I made a Spicy Cranberry-Apple Relish, a Cranberry Tart with a Polenta Crust, and a simple raw Cranberry Relish: One 12 ounce bag of fresh cranberries, a cup of sugar, the zest of two oranges, and some grated ginger; pulsed in the food processor to desired consistency - delicious and easy. I also put together a luscious Sweet Potato Gratin, which has become a yearly tradition. I roasted, steamed, and pureed the vegetables for a Butternut Squash Spoon Bread, and blanched green beans for a recipe I'd seen in the Times earlier in the week: Green Beans with Ginger and Garlic.

Thursday morning I started making stock from the giblets and some veggies. I followed this recipe for the Roasted Turkey with Pomegranate Glaze. All that was left for me to do was assemble the Bread Dressing with Dried Apricots, Pistachios, and Mint (I used dried cranberries instead of pomegranate seeds), as well as the savory Challah Stuffing with Fresh Herbs, Celery, and Crimini mushrooms. My pop had already prepared his Pumpkin Cheesecake with a Gingersnap and Toasted Pecan Crust (sorry, I don't know where he got the recipe, but it involves pureed pumpkin, cream cheese, egg yolks, and heavy cream, and it is sinfully delicious), so I was able to turn my attention to roasting the Turkey. 

G, L, and S arrived at around 1:30 with boxes of delectable goodies from a Greek bakery in Astoria, and a selection of cheeses, olives, and cornichons! G and L brought their camping equipment with them, committed to sleeping outside despite the fact that it would drop into the low 30s at night (cray cray!). So G went outside near the river (it's not quite a river, really more of a large stream) and pitched the tent. We Started eating at around 3:30 and kept going until we left for a candle-lit gratitude gathering in Rhinebeck that was to start at 8 o'clock, then we returned to the house for seconds of dessert and several episodes of Tattoo Nightmares (Pop's TV suggestion). 

I had a great time, I loved cooking and eating, I loved watching my friends and my dad enjoy all the food I made. I loved filling my father's house with love and laughter. I'm grateful that I got to spend the holiday with some of my favorite people. I'm grateful that I was far away from any holiday drama. This was truly one for the record books.

L & G down by the river

angry white guys

Republicans have now lost the popular vote five times out of the last six elections. This is especially inauspicious for the GOP considering that a black man, who many still foolishly believe to be a socialist not born in this country was reelected after the biggest national economic recession since the 1930s. This election should have been a shoe-in for almost any opponent. And while some blame could be laid on a smug, unlikable, out-of-touch, billionaire, Mormon candidate with suspiciously absent tax returns, the real onus belongs to a party unwilling to accept the inevitable changing demographic of the electorate or an evolving secular and modern-thinking public.

Same-sex marriage is now legal in Maryland, Maine, and Washington, and a ballot measure banning same-sex marriage in Minnesota failed. The Senate now has a record number of women-elect chosen to represent their constituents, among them Elizabeth Warren from Massachusetts, architect of the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau and vocal proponent of Wall Street reform. Wisconsin has elected Tammy Baldwin, the first openly gay Senator, recreational marijuana use (not just medicinal) is now legal in Colorado and Washington state, Tea Party-backed candidate Joe Walsh lost to Asian-American, disabled, Buddhist, female, veteran Tammy Duckworth, and Todd Akin and Richard Mourdock (the rape guys) were easily defeated in their respective districts.

The results of this election should in no way imply that all of America is on board with the chosen trajectory of the nation. Take a look at the electoral map and note the broad red swathe up and down and side to side across this great land. A big portion of that big red pool is the America that clings to their guns and their religion and watches FOX News. More difficult to distinguish amid the extreme rantings of the Tea Party crowd are the other portion of that same red pool; sane and sober folks who honestly believe in fiscal conservatism and less government. Their party has betrayed them.

Surprisingly, I don't want the GOP to disappear; we need a two party system in this country. Hopefully these next four years will give Republicans a much needed time out. The party needs to reevaluate and regroup in a way that they've never considered. In recent history, the GOP's knee-jerk response has been to go farther right; to gratify the demands of the loudest extreme fringe of their base. But as long as Limbaugh, Hannity, Coulter, Trump, Ted Nugent, and angry old men who argue with empty chairs continue to be the spokespeople for the party, they will fail. 

The once substantial and distinguished party of Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt, and Eisenhower has morphed into an unrecognizable and acrimonious coalition reminiscent of a truculent NASCAR rally. Social issues need to be removed from their platform if they are to maintain any relevance whatever. Unless the most divisive voices of the right are silenced, and until the party abandons its self-righteous, misogynistic, homophobic, xenophobic attitudes and makes room for the undeniable diversity of this great country, they will quickly retreat into obscurity. In a rare moment of candid clarity, Sen. Lindsey Graham of South Carolina, who to my thinking usually gets everything wrong, got something very right when he said, “We’re not generating enough angry white guys to stay in business for the long term.”

sandy

A week ago today, New Yorkers were scurrying to prepare themselves for the superstorm that had already crippled parts of the Caribbean and was furiously barreling northwards to wreak havoc on huge swathes of the East Coast. Having anti-climactic memories of Irene from only last year being so crisply imbedded in our collective consciousness unfortunately proved a disservice to the region's preparedness. Sandy, dubbed "Frankenstorm" by much of the media, would demonstrate not only the awesome power of nature's forces, but also the profound vulnerability of humanity. Even to the advanced infrastructure of this major world metropolis. Even to us implacable and hardened New Yorkers.

All public transportation was suspended last Sunday evening; all the bridges were closed to all but emergency vehicles, and huge portions of the outer boroughs, as well as parts of Long Island and New Jersey, had imposed mandatory evacuations. Understand that for this "city that never sleeps" to have it's major arteries stopped creates acute restlessness, agitation, and worry. Thinking that these were extreme precautions put in place to make up for Mayor Bloomberg's much criticized unpreparedness during last year's freak October snowstorm, I went to sleep last Monday night listening to the tempest beat against my windows and the wind whip around the buildings, thinking it would all be over by morning.

Of course, you know what happened next.

Upper Manhattan sustained downed trees and was strewn with debris; store awnings, garbage cans, etc., but ultimately the northern half of the island remained unharmed. We never lost power. Six days later, some areas are still without power and remain in desperate need as the temperatures this morning were in the low 40s. Prayers and wishes for a speedy recovery go out to all who have been affected by the storm.

What was perhaps most interesting for me was waking up the morning after the squall to the news that Governor Chris Christie, key-note speaker at the recent Republican convention and campaign-trail super-buddy of Mitt Romney, was praising President Obama for his rapid response to the people of his state. It was as if I went to sleep in a storm and woke up in Oz.  To Christie's credit, when Steve Doocy of "Fox and Friends" asked if he thought Mitt Romney was going to tour the affected areas of New Jersey, Christie responded, "If you think right now I give a damn about presidential politics then you don't know me." Of course, since then he's been being blasted on Fox news as a traitor to his party. But it's heartening to see bi-partisanship and, dare I say it, even humanity in someone who, up until now, I've found to be a boorish bully. While I'll undoubtedly continue to disagree with his policies, I'll view him in a new light going forward.

Another interesting turn in the aftermath of Sandy was Mayor Bloomberg's decision to go ahead with the New York Marathon as planned. While everyone agrees that, as New Yorkers, our resilience is unparallelled, Bloomie's insistence that we're "back to work and open for business" seemed especially compassionless considering, among other things, that the marathon starts on Staten Island, one of the areas most severely impacted by the hurricane. Bodies were still being pulled from buildings as the Mayor was touting the importance of tourist revenue pouring into the city. Certainly, businesses that have suffered financial losses as a result of the storm and the city itself could benefit from added revenue at this time, but logistically, diverting police and city workers to handle crowd control and hand out bottled water to runners as entire communities struggle to survive seemed pointedly callous. Eventually, the mayor's hand was forced by an angry public outcry, much of it from the visiting runners themselves, and the race was cancelled. Bloomberg's original decision earlier this week to carry on with business as usual clearly illustrated both the reasons why a business mentality might be a benefit in government, but more pointedly and importantly, how governing from a strictly business philosophy might lead to insensitive and unsympathetic decisions where suffering constituents are concerned.

We are New Yorkers, however, and like a great cosmopolite phoenix, we shall rise stronger and more determined than before. Until we've all recovered though, please continue to donate, volunteer, and pray for the communities and families who have suffered unprecedented losses from this freak storm. Aside from having our attention diverted for a few days from this maddening and seemingly endless election season, as I see it, two potential advantages have resulted from the devastation of superstorm Sandy: President Obama has been given the opportunity to look Presidential for the past six days as Romney has desperately scurried for attention, and climate change can no longer be scoffed at or ignored as an illegitimate topic.